He deserves it, and hockey deserves it too, since hockey saved my scarred and empty heart three years ago. I was a damn good player before then. But I hit a new level after Heather died. More goals, more points, more speed. The game gave me everything I needed in the aftermath of her death. It was an escape from the things the press said about me. The things the public thought they knew about me.
Things I’ve started sharing with Remy.
When Coach is done, I whirl around to my stall so fast, and I text her, asking to meet here at the arena soon. She doesn’t respond right away, but I shower fast anyway, feeling confident she will.
But as I button up my dress shirt ten minutes later, there’s still no note from her.
Hmm.
That’s not entirely like her. She’s responsible to a T. Maybe she’s busy.
Well, of course she is. She has a fucking life.
I toss my tie around my neck but don’t knot it as I pocket my phone and head out, determined to find her. Maybe she went home already, but we’ve got an animal rescue photo op tomorrow at a local shelter—or so I heard the other guys saying. I bet she’s still here, still working.
I should make sure she has a ride home.
I head to the stairwell, bound up the steps, and march down the corridor. It’s a little pushy to show up at her cubicle, but I’m a little pushy.
Only when I scan the marketing department, it’s empty, like I’d expect in the evening after a Sunday afternoon game.
No one’s here—not even a tall, leggy brunette working overtime.
My chest hollows out. A question rushes through my brain—is this too much? Is this that love-bombing shit guys do?
No one likes that.
Well, fuckhead, you’re standing at her desk, looking for her on a Sunday night. If the shoe fits…
I drag a hand roughly through my short hair—still getting used to it—and get the hell out of the marketing department.
I can’t be this guy. She wanted a fake boyfriend, not a real stalker.
Except as I retreat, heading down the corridor to the players’ lot, I ask myself—is it truly stalking to check in on a woman who went down on you unexpectedly in your closet? Is it obsession to ask her if she needs a ride home? I mean, it’d be ruder to leave without saying goodbye.
And if I know Remy, and I’m starting to, she’s probably planning a date for someone.
In seconds, I’m marching through the concourse, empty now. All the fans have gone home. Most of the vendors have shut their stalls. I circle around the arena, heading straight toward the plant wall.
And my Remy radar was right.
One tall, leggy woman sits in front of the ferns and evergreens in a chair made of reclaimed wood. Her brunette hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves. Maroon headphones cover her ears. She nibbles on the end of a pen as she stares at a notebook in her lap.
Fuck, she’s beautiful and fierce, and she made me a cat tower. My heart thumps dangerously hard as I stride closer.
The echo of my wingtips on the concrete floor grows louder. The sound must penetrate her headphones, since she snaps her gaze up, flinching.
“Sorry. I know you hate surprises,” I say, as she takes off the headphones.
“Hi.” She sounds distant.Because you’re chasing her too much.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. I just came here to plot a date for a new client. Someone from my podcast. They didn’t even mention the breakup. Yay,” she says, but she sounds unenthused.
She brandishes her notebook. It saysWorld Dominationon the cover—so her, so fucking her—but when she opens it she shows me a mostly blank page with just the words:
First date night in two years since their kid was born.
